A Desiccated Follower of Fashion
by wordybirdy
Summary: Holmes discovers the wonderful world of colour. To this end, Watson realises that he still knows very little about his friend's secret sock drawer.


Sherlock Holmes was a man who had, throughout the time that I had known him, always affected a certain quiet primness of dress. His suits were most often black, his shirts rather commonly a crisp white, and his ties nondescript. He had once admitted to a penchant for coloured socks upon a weekend – but then, as I generally saw no further than the black-trousered armour of those gangling legs, this casual wear would remain forever a mystery to me and the world at large.

My friend was a creature of habit, then; or at least was until a particular mid-week morning in Autumn. Ever the late riser, I was surprised to see Holmes sat at the breakfast table with his head buried in a newspaper. He looked up at my approach.

"Watson, good morning," said he with a bright smile. He jutted his chest a little to the side and out for my inspection and approval. "What do you think? Eh?"

"Holmes," I said, concerned, momentarily set off balance, "what... where... um, why...?" My tongue juddered to a halt.

Holmes frowned. "That is not an articulate response such as I am comfortably used to receiving," he said. "Please reformulate."

"The orange of your shirt is perhaps a little bright," I offered, hesitant. "I could think of happier hues that might meld more harmoniously with the scarlet of your waistcoat. And I am not at all sure about the yellow polka dots."

I sat down at the table and waved a hand in silent query at my friend's spectacularly lurid raiments.

"I don't understand," said he, aggrieved. "Might I ask, do you approve of my new attire, or do you not?"

"No," I replied, truthfully, "I do not. It is utterly horrid, Holmes."

His face fell.

"Why?" I asked him again.

"It is the new fashion," he said, sullenly. "Look." From a pile of brochures on his desk he produced a small booklet which he waved in front of me, fanning the pages. It appeared to be a gentleman's clothing catalogue.

"Windimonk's Wonderfully Woolly Winter Wear," I read slowly. I peered at the smaller print underneath. "With a Cornucopia of Colourful Cottons for the Canny Connoisseur."

My friend was nodding enthusiastically. He jutted his chest towards me once again.

"Touch the cotton," he offered. "It is really very soft."

"Thank you, I think that I would rather not."

I accepted the catalogue, reluctantly, at his insistence. I turned over several of the pages, each one of them gaudier, woollier and decidedly more expensive than the last. The centrefold and a number of pages beyond it were dedicated to shirts and waistcoats such as the ones that Holmes was presenting before me now.

"These colourful garments are the new fashion?" I enquired in bewilderment. "Holmes, are you absolutely certain about this? Perhaps one is meant to match one shirt with a sober waistcoat, or vice versa. Surely not all together, one on top of the other."

"I believe that you are _jealous_," said Holmes. "Jealous of my innate sense of style." He leaned across and tapped the brochure with his index finger. "They do not sell ties," he said sadly. "I cannot imagine why. Perhaps I shall enquire further when I place my next bulk order."

"Oh my goodness, please don't do that," I said. "I think that your clients might not take you so seriously if you greet them with a rainbow of mad purples, greens and yellows. Thank heavens the colours do not extend to the trousers." I frowned then, slightly panicked. "I take it that they do not, Holmes?"

"No," said he, "although it might be rather splendid if they did."

"I am happy to hear it," I replied. "For you already resemble a terrifying explosion in a paint factory."

He exhaled and rolled his eyes, brushed the toast crumbs from his front and made towards his chair that he might enjoy his first pipe of the day. From the corner of my eye I observed him ferret in his desk drawer, to extract a small box whereupon he turned from me to fiddle with the front of him. Presently he sat back, lighting his pipe and drawing in a deep satisfied lungful. The front of him now boasted a remarkably large brooch in the shape of a peacock, studded with glittering clear and coloured jewel.

"Holmes," I said, stunned, "what have you just pinned to yourself?"

He raised his nose toward me.

"Something to keep my tie in its place," he explained.

"But... you are not wearing such a tie...?"

He huffed, irritated.

"Well, when I _do_, then I shall have this to keep it in its place," said he. "Really, Watson, you are being quite obnoxious this morning. I suppose that you cut yourself shaving again, or stubbed your toe upon the bedpost."

"I did neither of those things," I retorted. "I am merely struggling to understand this new-found obsession. Who are you really hoping to impress from all of this?" I scratched thoughtfully at my moustache. "A lady?"

My friend's eyes widened. His lip curled. His overall countenance took up an unflattering amalgamation of squeam and horror.

"_No_," said he, with feeling, when he had recovered quite sufficiently from the idea. "Girls are icky."

I chuckled. "Some things remain a constant with you then, at any rate."

Holmes professed not to hear me. He busied himself with his papers and books. I heard the swift scratching of his pencil across the page, and an occasional inspired hum as a notion or theory struck him. Our landlady came to clear away the dishes and flinched only minutely at the sight of him, her radial journey from the door to the table but a fraction disturbed. I could not help but wholeheartedly admire the good woman's restraint. By an exchange of blinks and eyebrow fretting I understood that I should join her out upon the landing. Once there, the door safely shut behind us, she turned to me.

"Dr. Watson!" said she.

"I am afraid so," I replied.

"But, oh, Doctor!"

"I know, Mrs. Hudson."

"He is not wearing the socks as well, is he?" she whispered, her voice heavy with portent.

"I have no idea," I whispered back to her. "Are you referring to his weekend socks? He will not speak of them to me."

She shook her head. "It is for the best that you do not know," said she. And with her tray of breakfast dishes and spoons she bustled away down the stairs, tutting under her breath all the while.

I re-entered our sitting-room and sat down opposite my friend. I stared hard at where his trouser leg met his shoe. The cut was long, the shoe was high; I could see nothing. I made a show of dropping my tobacco pouch; I stooped down to pick it from the rug. I craned my neck towards the mysterious ankle nearest to me.

"Watson," said Sherlock Holmes, quite suddenly, sharply. "Might I ask exactly what it is that you are hoping to achieve down there?"

I started up guiltily and waved my tobacco pouch.

"Poppycock," said Holmes. "You were trying to look up my trousers."

"You do not sound particularly surprised," I replied, blushing, for of course it was of no use to tell a fib to a fellow who sees all and knows everything.

"I quite often do the same," he explained, matter of factly. "When I am in a roomful of people, why, there is no better way to deduce a gentleman's profession than by the state of his bootlace or the heel of his shoe. I do not think that they mind me scurrying around them on all fours. If they do, well, they have the courtesy not to make mention of it."

"Holmes," I said, astounded, "is that really what you do?"

"Yes," said he, happily. "And sometimes, I tie two fellows' shoelaces together just for the fun of it." He recalled a scene from days past, then, wincing. "I did it to the Prime Minister, once, before I realised who it was. A grave error on my part. He was not remotely happy about tripping head-first into the aspidistra, Watson."

"I should not imagine that he was," I agreed. I blinked up at my friend who had risen from his chair and was reaching for his hat. "My goodness, are you going outside?"

Holmes regarded me gravely.

"Yes," said he. "Otherwise, why should I take up my top hat? I am going to the confectioner. I have a terrible craving for sugar pigs."

And with a jingling of the loose coins within his pocket he was gone, the front door pulled to smartly behind him. I sat back; fairly bemused but a great deal entertained, regardless. I picked up _The Times_ and managed to distract myself well enough for the length of time my friend took to return from his trip; it was perhaps twenty minutes. His mood was much dejected as he threw himself down upon the sofa.

"They were all out of sugar pigs?" I enquired.

Holmes exhaled heavily. "No," said he, "I have my pigs. But they laughed at me, Watson. They _laughed_."

"Who laughed?"

"_Everyone._ The postman at the corner of the street. That little urchin Wiggins whom I found standing in line in front of me at the confectioner. And old Mrs. Grady behind the till let out the most terrible, racking guffaw that did not stop until I was halfway back home again. Is it really possible that yellow polka dots are capable of inducing such unpleasant hilarity, Watson?"

"It is possible," I said. "Along with all the rest of it."

"Drat it," said Holmes. "It was not my intention to become a local laughing stock. I may have to reconsider."

He appeared rather sad at the prospect.

"Perhaps retain it all for your weekend wear," I suggested helpfully.

My friend shot me a sharp look.

"Or for a fancy dress ball," I added, rather less kindly.

To my deepest regret, the large bag of sugar pigs was not proffered in my direction that day.


End file.
